Friend of the Family
by ShamelessOCcentricity
Summary: Mycroft Holmes's best friend from childhood reads John's blog and grows a bit tired of how Mycroft is spoken about - so he endeavors to set the record straight with a blog of his own.
1. Entry 1

**This is actually mostly based on my own experiences with Estella Cigam and her little sister, Evelyn. They have the same age gap and relationship as the Holmes brothers. So, I'll begin.**

The Holmes has an unusual family dynamic. For starters, Siger Holmes is a former Army man (I can't remember his rank, but it must've been pretty high) from an old money family. He's now a NATO official and married the equally wealthy Odette Holmes, nee Abney—she has a degree in psychology and dabbles in holistic healing.

I've never been to the Holmes manor and actually found normal processed foods.

Every piece of furniture has a story with it, and I've only heard half in all my years being a friend to them. Odd little trinkets—decorative ceramic boxes, rose-encrusted mirrors, ornate silver letter openers, little pig statues—and bottles of herbs dot every surface not dominated by books or collections of rare minerals.

Their first born was Mycroft Holmes, born with strawberry blonde hair that rapidly turned a dark ginger colour as he grew up. Mummy Holmes (when he's in trouble) and eight year old Sherlock called him Brolly. It sprang from his habit of—for hours on end, mind—sitting quite still, not speaking, with an umbrella when he was a child.

And he had an odd childhood—I've heard anecdotes where he's asked his father "What happens if you hang upside down for a long time?" and found himself hanging from the tree in the yard by his ankles. His father used to take him outside to play hide-and-seek-tag in the dark, and honed his son's night vision by randomly flickering lights on and off. As a baby, Mummy insists, he never cried much.

I believe it was eight years later (almost precisely) that Sherlock was born with a shock of dark curls that, in his baby pictures, at once set him apart from his older brother.

Sherlock had a full understand of English grammar and syntax when I met him—and he was scarcely five at the time, mind you. He also had this unnerving habit of noticing everything.

Mycroft had it too.

I met Mycroft Holmes when I eavesdropped on him and offered a suggestion for the conversation unthinkingly. Rather than grow annoyed, he thanked me for the contribution and asked me to join him and his friend Adair.

He was—and is—brilliant, and for that he can thank his parents: I don't know if genius is nature or nurture or a combination thereof, but they're responsible. Of course, they're also insane, the lot of them.

One morning I woke up in the guest bedroom (I'd stayed the night after helping Mycroft organise the herbs for his latest pet project, a study of poisons) to the following conversation:

"Pass me the pig cup?" Mrs. Holmes (this was before I started bursting into the Holmes manor and calling, "MYCROFT! Oh, hey Mummy, I'm home, where's Mycroft?") said quietly.

Sherlock was obviously in a bad mood, because he grumbled, "Why? You have a cup."

"Because," She replied patiently, "This pig cup is special. It is better to drink air from a pig cup than to drink juice from a regular cup."

Pigs. Don't get me started on the Holmes family and pigs. Pig stuffed animals in Sherlock's room; a pickled pig's heart on Mycroft's mantelpiece; little elegant statues in every imaginable art style; quotes on pigs; pictures of pigs; everyone in the family had a single favourite animal: _pigs_. They don't eat much pork, and I'm told the heart is from Mrs. Holmes's pet pig from Mycroft's childhood.

Don't get me wrong, I like pigs. But I like bacon better.

But back to my story!

Mycroft, on the day in question, rolled over and sighed at my mounting amusement. "You should hear about Santa Pig, the Easter Pig, and the Tooth Pig."

I lost control and started laughing, propping myself up on one arm and looking around the herb-smelling wreckage of the room. Mycroft had never had Mountain Dew before, so I'd made him drink a whole can. Needless to say, he'd been bouncing off the walls.

So enjoyable was the experience for my best friend that I had promised (under some duress) to buy him lots of caffeinated drinks for his birthday, and I even agreed to help him hide the contraband in his room and take credit if Mrs. Holmes found out.

She never did find out.

Look, Mycroft gets some bad press. Even if the press is banned from printing his name, I mean—in the quiet wraps of the British government, people talk about his coldness and unruly brother with a drug history. And I'll tell you a secret: he didn't want power. He still doesn't. But fact is, he's the best man—no, the _only_ man—for the job.


	2. Entry 1: Comments

**Comments (17):**

**Sherlock Holmes:**

You were always a bit daft, Darren, but this is too far. Portraying Mycroft as a good guy?

**Mycroft Holmes:**

He isn't daft.

**Darren Wilcox:**

Thanks, Mycroft. Hopefully Mummy doesn't read this—if she hears I gave you Mountain Dew during your "key developmental years", she'll blame me for every health problem you ever develop.

**John Watson:**

No offence, but, uh, you have friends? I thought you tried to be all Vulcan.

**Mycroft Holmes:**

I don't have friends. I have Darren, and then my associates.

**Darren Wilcox:**

You have one friend.

**Sally Donovan:**

Freaks.

**Darren Wilcox:**

Muggle.

**John Watson:**

Ignore her.

**Darren Wilcox:**

She reminds me of those guys who cornered Mycroft first year of college. Remember that, Mycroft?

**Mycroft Holmes:**

Oh, yes, the ones who got mildly irritated because I turned them in for cheating.

**Darren Wilcox:**

Can't stand people who get stroppy over getting caught fair and square.

**Sherlock Holmes:**

Agreed, actually. Criminals are always swearing revenge. None are quite to the point where they'll shake my hand and say "well-played."

**John Watson:**

Sherlock! You said you were getting the milk—what are you doing on the internet?

**Mrs. Hudson:**

Look, I got my own account all set up! Sherlock's here on his laptop.

**Sherlock Holmes:**

Thanks, Mrs H, now he's going to sulk.

**Darren Wilcox:**

Please keep the domestics to your own blogs, much obliged.


	3. Entry 2

"Ugh, come on, _Mycroft_—how did you do it? I've never seen Professor Elliot so bloody pleased with anyone beside himself." Then I glanced at Sherlock and blushed furiously. "Ah, Sherlock, don't repeat any _colourful_ words I use, 'kay?"

"I'll be careful not to if Brolly tells us how he knew about the cheaters." Sherlock said, lifting his chin to look at Mycroft pleadingly, knowing it'd be Mycroft who would pay the price if I taught him swearwords. Mummy liked me too much, and felt too awkward disciplining a child not biologically hers.

Mycroft sighed and set his fork down quietly, straightening his napkin before beginning. I knew his tics, and this meant he was embarrassed by my interest and didn't want to brag about something I was already thoroughly impressed by. "Well, I missed the last test because 'Lock was sick and I needed to stay and take care of him for Mummy.

"There were three other boys with me in the stairwell—we had to make up the tests there, since there was a class going on in the room—and every once in a while, a teacher went past, but not enough to make it very secure."

"Okay. And they were all cheating right in front of you?"

"They hardly noticed me. I'm barely college age, and I look pretty young besides."

"I know the feeling." I muttered darkly, but I continued watching my old friend attentively.

"And they kept slightly shifting and looking at their pockets. I could only see two of them actually checking cheat sheets, but they were all right handed, so logically they'd keep the papers in their left pockets so they could stop and pretend to write when a teacher went by. So when I turned my paper in, I also turned them in and got myself in Elliot's good books."

I grinned at Mycroft. "Brilliant," I said softly.

"That's not what those three guys said." Mycroft replied.

"They're idiots. You get caught, you get caught—the game is up, fair's fair."

"I doubt noble sentiments like those would pacify them."

"Well, then, call me up and I'll go kick some posh Eton arse—sorry, Sherlock."

"S'all right. Brolly cusses a lot when Mummy's not around."

"Do not!"

"Oh, you so do." I agreed, and Mycroft looked at me in mock horror.

"Et tu, Brute?"


	4. Entry 2: Comments

**Comments (20):**

**John Watson:**

I posted a link of this to my blog—brilliant work. Any tips to other Holmes bloggers?

**Sherlock Holmes:**

Learning to type helps.

**John Watson:**

Shut up.

**Harry Watson:**

Who's this Mycroft bloke, and why can he delete John's blog entries while this guy can run about posting whatever he wants?

**Sherlock Holmes:**

Mycroft is the British government.

**Darren Wilcox:**

Mycroft occupies a minor position the British government, but due to his proficiency at what he does, he gets way more work than he's supposed to. This includes making sure Sherlock and his associates don't go about spreading government secrets.

**John Watson:**

Sounds like you really understand him. More power to you, I guess.

**Sherlock Holmes:**

Why is everyone so obsessed with understanding me and Mycroft?

**Sally Donovan:**

Because you're freaks.

**Darren Wilcox:**

Anyone know how to block individual from commenting?

**Sally Donovan:**

I'm allowed to have an opinion.

**Darren Wilcox:**

Yes, but is it really necessary to keep talking when all you seem to say is "freaks"? (To answer that for you, no.)

**Sally Donovan:**

*comment deleted*

**Harry Watson:**

*comment deleted*

**Darren Wilcox:**

That's a bit out of line.

**Sally Donovan:**

*comment deleted*

**Harry Watson:**

*comment deleted*

**Sally Donovan:**

*comment deleted*

**John Watson:**

I'm not gay!

**Darren Wilcox:**

John, I believe you, but we're digressing. Next time, I'll post the situation with the cheaters confronting Mycroft.

-o-o-o-

I read the blog {www (dot) johnwatsonblog (dot) co (dot) uk} too many times and decided I really liked that style, but the narrator in me also wants to keep writing it in story format too, so I'm balancing that.


	5. Entry 3

I wasn't there for the first bit, so this is my understanding of it up until I got there:

"Holmes!"

Mycroft tried to ignore them, he really did (Mummy would've been rather annoyed if he got in a fight, after all), but they were determined.

"Don't run from us, Holmes."

"Coward."

"Yeah, couldn't even tell us to our faces he ratted us out."

He turned around. "I'm not a coward. I turned you into Professor Elliot, yes, and I would do it again. I don't regret it, and you don't frighten me for a second."

They were crowding him out of sight of the road, making threats and generally insulting him, when I reached them.

"Mycroft!" I called worriedly at this, climbing off the bike and leaning in against a wall.

I was home schooled (I taught myself out of the textbooks and Mycroft tutored me when I got stuck)—Dad had decided he didn't want me going to Eton and wasting his drinking money on school uniforms—but I always joined Mycroft for his walk home.

Mycroft seemed relieved, though he kept up an air of indifference. "Hey, Darren."

I wasn't exactly what you'd call intimidating, son of the town drunk wearing clothing that had once belonged to Mycroft and had been tailored by Mrs. Holmes to be short enough for me, but I don't think they expected it to be anything more than a three-on-one fight.

Their moment of unease was enough for me to pull Mycroft away and stand between them.

"You're the guys he turned in for cheating, yeah?" I addressed them. They glared, but Mycroft gave an imperceptible nod. "You alright, Mycroft?"

"Fine."

"This doesn't concern you." One blurted out.

Suitably backed up, they regained their blustering attitudes. "Yeah, get out of here while you still can."

"Nope."

"Look, little Mycroft got himself a friend." One sneered.

"Holmes? Friends? I bet he's a bodyguard." The second added.

"He has no respect for authority either way." The first rejoined.

"Guess we'll have to teach both of you respect." The third snapped.

They started closing in and I glanced at my friend when they were in punching range.

"Mycroft?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Yes."

"Which?"

"Right."

The boy on the farthest right shifted out of my range, but that was alright, because Mycroft meant my right arm, which lined up perfectly for the guy in the middle. My fist met his jaw and knocked him back just as Mycroft smoothly intercepted a punch from the third (furthest left) meant for me—he caught the offending wrist tightly and twisted, thus doubling him over so Mycroft could knee him in the stomach.

The remaining one, who'd been lucky enough to move back, didn't get far towards Mycroft before I grabbed his upper arm, spun him around, and rammed him in the solar plexus.

"I taught you that one," Mycroft observed. "Effective, isn't it?"

"Yes, but we already knew that; Sherlock demonstrated it on me, at your suggestion."

We weren't even remotely out of breath, mostly because it didn't take much effort for us to second guess the other's next move and fight accordingly, but upon the stirring of one of our attackers he grabbed the edge of my sleeve and tugged me away.

"HEY!" The one I'd punched called (odd how only he'd managed to not get the wind knocked out of him; I'd have fixed it for the lucky bastard if he'd caught up with us—he never did) after us as we ran.

And we definitely were running, even though the likelihood of being chased after was slim. It was the only way to use up the excess adrenaline without Mummy murdering us.

"Let's not do that again." Mycroft said once we were far enough away to feel safe.

"Don't deny it; that was excellent stress relief."

"And otherwise pointless."

"No, it wasn't. Mummy keeps offering to buy me the stuff I'd need to go to Eton? I'm taking her up on the offer."

"I can defend myself." He insisted.

"Oh, I know. I'm more worried that they think you can't get friends who'll protect you without hiring them."

"And how exactly is my mother paying for you to attend Eton going to change that?"

"It won't."

"Then why bother? Your father will be furious."

"Always a good reason _to_ do something."

He stopped on the doorstep and turned to stare. "You're insane."

"Absolutely bonkers," I agreed, pushing open the door. "Mummy! We're home!"

**Writer here, the actual one, yeah, hi, it's SOCC.**

**I'm running out of actual ideas, and I've seen you sneakily favouriting this story and adding it to your Alert lists, so I know you're reading! I need suggestions. A question for Darren to answer as if it came out of the message system on his blog. Anything! *BORED***

**{SOCC}**


End file.
